


Monthly Servicing

by VLVTwrites



Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Chastity Device, F/M, Femdom, Forced Orgasm, Genital Torture, Loss of Control, Love, Male Protagonist, Milking, Overstimulation, Paralysis, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25239061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VLVTwrites/pseuds/VLVTwrites
Summary: Mistress Isabel makes the rounds, visiting each of her charges for their monthly release. The whole place is quiet. Her handling can be quite rough, but what's a little discomfort to a slave in love?
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 62





	Monthly Servicing

I'm hyperventilating again. The first of the month is always like this. All day, pins and needles waiting for Mistress Isabel to service me.

It doesn't really help with the sleepless nights, or sate the constant longing for release. Hell, even half an hour later the craving returns. I can't shut out the excitement. My brain, down in its primitive core, _craves_ her attention. It's not even the drugs. They make it worse, sure, but I remember before she doped us all the time. I wanted it then. I ached for her, emotionally and physically.

Another surge of adrenaline washes over me. That's the door to my neighbor's cell! I can hear her heels on the linoleum, drawing closer. I'm the last door—there's nowhere else she's going but to me. I get ready as fast as I can; I lay back on the cot and get into position, presenting myself for her. A silhouette casts over the little window in the door, and the handle twists. I can hardly maintain the Pose for all my shaking.

I guess it was a panic attack, because she speaks but her words are murky and quiet and far. With sheer force of will, I bring myself back from the brink. I can imagine what she said: "Good morning Kent, it's time for your monthly servicing."

Arms and legs go dead at the press of a button. She does it right from her phone these days! Anyway, a woman so pure as Mistress Isabel can't be too careful around degenerates like me. She splays my legs and she presses the soles of my feet together before starting on the cage that holds my cock. In my excitement, I've filled out the plastic contraption as much as it permits. As she pulls it off, my cock stiffens to greet her. She inspects the device with a grimace, finding the inside soaked with slimy precum, which she shakes out onto the sheets.

"Disgusting," she says. It drips onto my leg.

"Yes, Mistress." The only words I have left.

There's a moment, long and glorious, where she holds my cock in her hands. Through the latex glove I can feel the warmth of her skin. We're lovers. On this single day, every month, she looks _at_ me more than through me. She attends to _my_ needs rather than the reverse. It's hard to explain the excitement—the kind of feeling so pure and raw I thought it only existed in childhood.

"Are you ready for your servicing, mister Kent?"

"Yes, Mistress." My voice is wavering. I try to contain my excitement.

"Did you behave this month?"

If I had my words, I would write her a poem on the spot. That I've been "good" is beyond question. I've done everything she's asked of me, and always with a smile. It wasn't like the early days—my _rebellious_ period. I can't believe how much I lied back then. I didn't understand. I attended to her every need, but I would have killed her if I had the chance. If only she could know how genuinely happy I am now.

"Yes, Mistress," I answer. My intonation, I hope, conveys my sincerity.

A dagger seems to have glanced her heart. The smile fades, and she no longer looks me in the eye. She reaches into her bag and removes two small cock sleeves, one blue and one red. She replaces the nice, soft blue one without even a second of consideration and widens her stance as she moves the "toy" down to my waiting cock. Even just pressed against my swollen cock head, I can feel it scouring the skin.

I'm hyperventilating again, but she doesn't seem to care. I writhe, but I know not to move my body. I don't make those kind of mistakes anymore. She pushes it down slowly so I can feel every ridge drag over my defenseless cock. It slides over my skin with all too much ease, thanks to a copious amount of lube, and perhaps the contributions of my fellow inmates.

I can't scream, though every fiber in my body wants to. That would ruin all the good behavior I've demonstrated for so long. I simply can't scream. A long whine will have to suffice (as long as it's quiet).

How many months now have I gotten the Red? It blurs the line between pleasure and pain in a more tangible way than anything I've ever felt. At least I won't last long. It's made to milk men like me for all they're worth, and there's absolutely no stopping it. I don't bother fighting anymore, it's not worth the actual _nightmares_. Imagine that: nightmares about a sex toy! When I surrender to it, it does its job in record time. It's an extension of Mistress Isabel anyway, so giving myself to it should only make her happy.

Can't have been more than a minute and it's wringing the cum out of me. I can't tell her when I'm cumming, but she seems to have noticed anyway. Her eyes meet mine for a second while she works, and I melt. The toy audibly fills with my cum, squelching and burping with every move. Mistress Isabel doesn't slow her pace.

I can't tell her to stop, even though my body starts to reject it. Every stroke is like fire now, but she keeps going. This is my punishment, though I don't know what crime I've committed. In my heart, I know I'll have to try harder next time.

She's winding down a bit, slowing from the frantic pace. It's honestly worse this way, with every nerve reporting its torment a bit more accurately to my brain. Still, these few minutes of agony are a joy compared to some of the long nights she's left me in the milking machines. Unexpectedly, I cum a second time. Oh, it's excruciating, but it's so worth it! And best of all, it's earned me another look into her eyes. Longer this time, too, and tinted with genuine amusement. I didn't think I was capable of surprising her anymore. She slows her hands to a stop, languidly pushing the sleeve all the way down my cock.

"All done, Kent," she says.

It was hell, and I'm sad it's over.

Very slowly, she withdraws the toy, every millimeter of the wretched thing tormenting me on its way up. One last gift for my masochism. My cock stands in the air for a second before quickly deflating, and she reapplies my cage.

"Sorry for the quick session, dear."

She's sorry? I don't deserve that kind of consideration. I reply with a shy glance. Any of my words would have come out as "Yes, Mistress", and I would never suggest she apologize for how she treats me.

"I've got a date tonight so I'm giving you all the quick version."

I hope it goes well. Our treatment improves substantially when she's happy. Funny that she'd even tell me about her date. Maybe she wants to give me something to fantasize about. I can already see her partner in the throes of passion, unfettered. Free to devour her clit, that precious thing which will forever remain hidden to me and my kind. I imagine lots of red satin in her bedroom. How can she be so thoughtful?

She opens the door to my cell and tap-taps on her phone, and life is restored to my limbs. They come back feeling like TV static.

"Good night, Kent," she calls back.

"Yes, Mistress."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. First-person is fun from time to time!


End file.
